


Save It

by armario



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, a nice fic for once, well as nice as wayne/crane is ever going to get
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 19:51:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6580096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/armario/pseuds/armario
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night does strange things to your head; makes morality seem far away and decisions less black and white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save It

 

Crane knows he can't hide (the Scarecrow might be insane but _he_ isn't)- it might seem like he's been successful in hiding from the Bat, but the truth is, the Bat just isn't looking for him. Yet.

It makes his gut churn in rage and shame and panic all at once, that he isn't important anymore. He's low down on a list of priorities, just another one of the many crazed inmates loose on the streets that Batman doesn't waste his precious time on.

Jonathan reflects on his choice of words, as a psychiatrist is wont to do. He supposes he _was_ an inmate. Patient or doctor, everyone was trapped in Arkham.

His stomach grumbles, asking _when was the last time he ate?_ And to be truthful, he doesn't know; doesn't know how long he's been slinking about in dark alleys, constantly looking over his shoulder, barely lucid and waiting till his time is up.

That time has come. His terror and gratitude mingle with the adrenaline surging through him as the Batman blocks his path. The pause during which they stare at each other is painfully tense.

“Long time, no see,” Jonathan attempts bitterly.

Batman does not answer, only steps forward. Jonathan flinches, eyes closed and waiting for the inevitable blow as his already harsh breathing grows even more ragged.

It doesn't come. He opens his eyes tentatively and the Bat is mere inches away, or he could be further, but Crane doesn't trust his own senses, not with the bugs he can feel crawling down his back or the rasping growls of things just out the corner of his eye, or the black ooze seeping from the Batman's eyes-

_It's not real, it's not real, it's not real._

He chants it over and over inside his head.

“How long have you been like this?” asks the dark knight.

Crane grins; it's that or scream, and he's screamed enough these past few _days? weeks? months?,_ curled into a petrified little heap on the rain soaked ground to know that it doesn't help, not one bit.

“I don't know,” he answers truthfully, hearing how hoarse and alien his voice sounds.

The Bat seems to pause, to deliberate and Jonathan wonders if he's going to die, right now.

What he doesn't expect is a strong grip on his arm guiding him away from the black, claustrophobic alley and shoving him into the confines of a dark vehicle, and then hearing the thrum of an engine.

Crane passes out, not for the first time this week.

*******

It's gotten to the point where Alfred realises he shouldn't ask any more. That, of course, doesn't stop him.

"And what poor creature have we here, Master Wayne?" he asks disapprovingly.

Bruce gives him that look. His father had it mastered too. That's how Alfred finds himself helping the young man to drag one Doctor Crane-slash-Scarecrow into the Batcave and constructing a sort of cell- just a room they'd not found a use for yet, the heaviest padlock they could find for the door and cuffs for Crane.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce mutters. Alfred just raises an eyebrow. “Do you think Lucius could produce some more of the antidote for me? Quickly?”

“I shall ask, sir. No doubt he will.”

Bruce sighs in relief. “Thank you,” he repeats. Alfred takes that as his sign to leave.

Crane begins to stir, then bolts upright with a shriek. He rattles at his handcuffs, blinking wildly and Bruce can hear his litany of it's not real, it's not real as his lips ghost over the words.

Bruce moves closer and catches Crane's free hand (the one currently clawing at his other wrist) in his, choosing to ignore the resultant flinch.

“So,” Jonathan begins, panting slightly, lips twisted into a pained grimace. “The infamous Bat-man. Was it compassion that brought you to save me,” he spits, “or some sadistic need to humiliate-”

Bruce doesn't know he's done it until he hears the sickening crack and Crane lets out a whimper, pupils dilating in pain as his free hand (relinquished from Bruce's grip because of his brief but overwhelming guilt) goes to clutch the back of his head.

Crane reverts back to his chanting of it's not real, it's not real, wide blue eyes unfocussed but darting around the shadowed depths of the Batcave. Bruce can feel the doctor's entire body shaking.

“Dammit,” he whispers softly. In his mind, he pleads for Lucius to hurry with that antidote. He tells himself it's because Crane is no use to him like this, and doesn't want to explore his subconscious' other nefarious motives for wanting to preserve this insane, scheming, murderous man.

Though lying there, trembling with fear, he doesnt look quite so insane, or scheming, or murderous.

 

Bruce gets up and leaves, oddly ashamed of what he's done.

******

The next morning (just about five hours later, and neither of them had slept a wink of it, unless you call Crane passing out yet again from lack of hunger, energy and will to live sleeping), Bruce dons his mask and makes his way down to the Batcave with food, water and the intention to dress Crane in something less torn, less clotted with dirt, less stiff with rain and blood.

The doctor is unconscious, twitching slightly, undoubtedly plagued by nightmares. Bruce hesitantly puts a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake.

Jonathan's eyelids flutter open and he jams his knuckles into his mouth to stop himself from screaming at the dark silhouette standing above him.

“Sorry,” Bruce mutters.

Crane laughs, the little fucker actually laughs, albeit nervously and still gulping back the fear that threatens to encompass him. Bruce is impressed, really; he's seen thugs on the street literally tear themselves apart from the fear that the hallucinations bring.

“I brought you food, if you want it,” he tells the other man. Jonathan just snorts.

“Please eat something,” he tries again, the words sounding foreign on his tongue. Crane raises an eyebrow, but instead picks up the glass of water from the tray and downs it in, what... less than five seconds?

“My friend is working to get you the antidote,” Bruce says. “You'll have it by today.”

Crane's expression is unreadable. He sits back and shifts his head to rest on the wall- Bruce doesn't miss the wince.

“Do you want a shower? I have clothes you can borrow,” he says uneasily.

Crane ignores him. “Who are you, Bat-man?” he murmurs. “Take off your mask for me.”

Bruce sets his jaw. After a moment, he answers. “I will. Fine. If you eat and shower first.”

Jonathan tilts his head, a very Scarecrow-reminiscent gesture, and then his face breaks into a tired grin. “Okay. Alright.”

Bruce nods. He is ridiculously relieved, though mostly because he can't bear the idiot to starve to death, that wouldn't be dramatic enough and they both know it, find it amusing.

He watches the doctor tackle the plate of scrambled eggs and toast, forcing each mouthful down and looking close to throwing up, growing paler by the second.

“Well done,” Bruce deadpans, receiving a typical Crane glare in return.

He fetches the keys (hidden well out of reach) for the handcuffs and leads the other man through the cave to the tiny area made up of a shower and usually bloodstained floor tiles where he is used to rinsing himself after any particularly violent escapade.

Crane leans on him heavily, breath coming in nervous gasps. Occasionally he will raise a hand to shield his eyes from imaginary creatures- the Wayne heir knows the struggle- and Bruce will take over his litany for him, mumbling a constant stream of reassuring words. “It's okay. They're not real. You're safe.”

He doesn't have time right now to analyse why the fuck he's taking care of the goddamn Scarecrow; he's quite sure Crane would take devious pleasure in doing it for him.

“Can you shower okay?”

The answering eye roll is good enough. Bruce can't even give him the liberty of being able to shower unsupervised, but that's no one else's fault but his own. Sort of.

Jonathan is impossibly thin, and Bruce swallows down his pity as he takes in the sharp collarbones and narrow hips, and ribs that stick out. The man's pale skin is littered with cuts and bruises, and Wayne tries (failing miserably) not to stare.

When he is finished, Bruce hands him a towel and lets him dry himself off. His hands are clumsy and shaking, he nearly falls over several times trying to struggle into Bruce's proffered pair of boxers and oversized t-shirt.

He exhales, slumping against the wall.

Alfred, having been searching, spots them at that moment and comes up to hand Bruce a syringe.

“How do I know this isn't a lethal dose of cyanide or something?” Bruce asks, smiling weakly.

The butler puts on his best steely glare to demonstrate his dissatisfaction. “You don't.”

Wayne's smile widens. “Thank you. And tell Lucius I said the same.”

Alfred gives a knowing nod and leaves them wordlessly in peace, discomfited by Crane's unnerving gaze. What has the Wayne name come to? Housing mad criminals surely isn't what anyone has in mind when they think of the respectable family. He sighs irritably but fondly over his reckless young master and knows he must let him make his own moral decisions.

“This is the antidote,” Bruce tells his... captive. “I'm going to put it in your neck. You should recover within minutes.”

Jonathan nods bleakly. He squirms at the feel of the needle sliding into his neck and gasps as the antidote began to take effect. His hallucinations worsen significantly, the Bat-man's face reduced to a writhing mass of maggots picking at dead flesh, red-eyed bats swooping down at him from every angle, hideous manic screams echoing in the walls of the cave, all manner of unknown creatures biting and creeping over his flesh. The nightmare seems to go on forever, his skin crawling and blood drawn from his lips as he bites down to stop himself screaming.

And then, it stops.

Jonathan lets out a pained cry, his vision clearing.

“It worked?”

“Yes,” he gasps.

The Bat cannot hide his relief fast enough. With a practised hand, he removes his mask and Doctor Crane is left looking at the face of the Prince of Gotham. The Wayne Heir. Bruce Wayne.

 Jonathan doesn't laugh or grin or scream. This time, he buries his head into his drawn up knees and weeps, breathless sobs that wrack his whole frame, some cynical psychiatrist part of him laughing because Doctor Crane, master of fear, is in shock.

Bruce sits beside him and circles his arms round the shaking form. “It's over now.”

“I can't believe billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne dresses up as an oversized bat at night and jumps across rooftops chasing loonies,” Jonathan laughs hopelessly, a little hysterically.

Bruce, overcome by the absurdity of the situation, smiles too, but can't keep the edge from his comeback. “Really? Is it too hard to believe? Even when recognized psychopharmacologist Jonathan Crane dresses up like a scarecrow and drugs people into thinking he has maggots crawling over his face?”

“Research,” Jonathan answers straightfacedly.

Bruce snorts.

*****

They lie like that till Jonathan's shivers and tears subside and then it is the doctor that pulls himself up so he is nearly straddling Bruce (not at all distracting) and fixes him with that ice blue stare.

“Why did you rescue me?” he asks.

Bruce swallows and Crane's eyes follow the bobbing of his throat, then flicker back up to meet his gaze.

"I don't know,” he replies honestly, echoing Crane's earlier predicament.

Jonathan looks at him for a few moment's longer as if deciding what to make of that, and then closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against Bruce's.

Bruce gasps into Jonathan's mouth and flips him over so that he is on top, pinning slender wrists to the wall and deepening the rough kiss.

They break off, panting for breath but grinning stupidly.

“I could psychoanalyse you right now, if you want,” Jonathan breathes, eyes alight with arousal and mischief.

“Save it,” Bruce growls and kisses him again.

He thinks absently back as Jonathan whines beneath him, bucking his hips, on how exactly they got into this situation when less than a day ago they were near mortal enemies. He feels Crane smirk against his mouth, his hands curling in Bruce's hair, as if he knows exactly what Bruce is thinking.

Impatient to focus on the task at hand- a needy, beautiful Jonathan- he settles for this:

The night does strange things to your head; makes morality seem far away and decisions less black and white.


End file.
